


Walked Right Back Into My Life

by aliitvodeson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, let's draw Sherlock Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliitvodeson/pseuds/aliitvodeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's getting married, he's neck deep in his clinic work, and to top it off, he's seeing things. Because there's no way Sherlock's standing in his waiting room, asking for John to work with him on a case. There's just no way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walked Right Back Into My Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Let's Write Sherlock" challenge on Tumblr  
> Prompt: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then… John writes a blog post.

Um, so yeah. Haven’t done this in a while, so I’m a bit out of practice. A lot has happened since my last post, I’ll try to get you caught up as quickly as a I can. My job at the clinic fizzled out, but it’s okay since I’m now running my own! That’s right! This is Doctor John Watson of Watson Walk-In (yeah I know, corny but it was Mary’s idea). Which brings me to the next thing. My wonderful girlfriend and soon to be wife, Mary. Wedding date hasn’t been set yet, but invitations should be coming out soon. I’ll post a picture of Mary as soon as I can.  
Of course, you’re probably wondering why I’m back writing after three years. There’s a couple of reasons. I’m shipping out again next fall, heading out with Doctor’s Without Borders. Course, I suppose that’s not really shipping out, but it’s in Afghanistan, so yeah. All that. Sand. Desert. Getting shot at.  
And then there’s the big reason I’m reopening this blog.  
He’s alive. The git’s alive.  
He faked it. Faked it all. The fall and the suicide and bloody hell! He even came to the funeral, the stupid idiot.  
If you don’t know who I’m talking about, go read the rest of my posts. I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you. Not now. Not with the idiot staring at me from the couch.  
Bloody hell, he really is alive.  
The great idiot, of course, decided to keep us all in the dark for the last three years while he ran around the world knocking out Moriarty’s web on his own. And when I say us, I really mean me. Mycroft knew. Irene (yeah, she’s alive too) knew. Hell, even Molly knew! But not me. Not me.  
You know, I am happy he’s alive, don’t read this the wrong way. I hugged him and said how good it was to see him and all. Right before I punched him. Angelo, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry about the blood. I didn’t mean to break his nose. It just sort of happened. I mean, I planned punching him, but not breaking his nose. That wasn’t planned. Felt good though. I suppose everything feels good when your best friend who’s supposed to be dead shows up at your workplace and says he’s got a case to solve, but really Sherlock? Another serial killer? If I knew any better, I’d say you planned this to be romantic.  
Anyways, I was just closing up the walk-in when this old guy walks in and says he’s got a message for me. I say okay, give me a moment, turn around to finish up putting away the patient files and when I turn around, the old guy’s gone and Sherlock’s standing there. I nearly shit myself. Thought I’d gone mad. Three years, I’ve supposed to have stopped seeing his ghost by now. He just stands there and looks at me for what seems like ages (but was only five minutes, as he’s correcting me now. Honestly Sherlock, go write on your own blog). And I stare back and we keep staring and staring until he finally says, “you’re drooling John”. And then proceeds to sit down on the counter and read off everything about me.  
I wanted to kill the damn guy. If he wasn’t already dead.  
Anyways, we got the whole, “but you’re dead” “actually I’m not” “where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me?” bit over with and got around to why he’d come back. “I’ve got a case John.” That’s all he says. He fakes his suicide and takes off for three years and all he can say is, “I’ve got a case.” I wanted to punch him right there. Thought I might have fallen and hit my head on the counter. That I was seeing things.  
“You haven’t gone mad John. I am alive and well, all things considered, and I’m currently sitting in the chair in your walk-in clinic. There is yet another serial killer running loose in London, and if we hurry we just might catch him before he kidnaps his next victim.”  
“You’re alive.” I sputtered.  
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course I’m alive. Now would you hurry up and grab your coat. I’ll explain everything after we catch the killer.”  
And then he just waltzed right out of the clinic doors, his big coat flapping behind him. I grabbed my coat and ran after him, barely stopping to lock the doors.  
“Sherlock, can you-”  
“Hush John, I need to think.”  
And he just kept running down the street.  
Luckily, the scene of the latest murder wasn’t that far from the clinic. Greg and Sally were waiting by the police tape. “Good, you found him.” Lestrade held up the tape as we neared. Sherlock didn’t slow down, partially rolling under the tape.  
“Of course I found him. I’m me.”  
Sally rolled her eyes at his back.  
“Don’t roll your eyes Sally. It makes you look like more of an idiot than usual.”  
Greg and I both stifled a laugh. He patted me on the back as we all moved after Sherlock, towards the bright blue shed, where even more officers were gathered. “You glad he’s back?”  
“Still haven’t processed it. He hasn’t given me a chance to.”  
Greg smirked. “How’s Mary doing?”  
“Dress fitting tonight. I’m tempted to ask Mycroft for the videos, get a sneak peak at the dress.”  
“Hurry up John.” Sherlock called as he ducked into the shed.  
Greg shoved me forward. “We can talk later John. Swap the story of how he broke the news.”  
“Of course. And then you’ll help me cover up his murder.”  
“Tempted to kill him?”  
“Just haven’t figured out the method.”  
Greg winked as we followed Sherlock into the shed.  
He was standing over the body, poking the arm of the person, I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, with his foot. “Dead, twelve hours I’d say, though I want John’s opinion on that. Shot three times in the lower back, once in the back of the head. Face’ll be disfigured, I doubt we’ll get an match from visuals. Run a fingerprint match, she was booked for carjacking yesterday.”  
Greg was writing everything down on his notepad. “And our killer? What are we looking for, Sherlock?” I knelt next to the body, running a gloved finger over the girl’s sweater.  
“He was twenty three, came from his best friend’s uni graduation. Foreign exchange student, midwest American origins. Five foot eight inches, hit his head when he came into the shed. Murder was done here, though he moved the body.” Sherlock bounded back.  
“Sherlock....”  
I had just lifted up the girl’s arm, intending to check his timeframe for her death, when I saw the wires.  
“Run.”  
We booked it out of there, as Greg shouted orders for all officers to clear the area.  
It must have been a small bomb. The blast only demonished the shed. Sherlock was shaking his head even as the police moved back into the area. “Of course. The body was found before he had the chance to blow up the evidence. He knows we’re getting close. He needs to cover his tracks. Lestrade!”  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock chucked his mobile at Greg. “There’s your killer.” He turned to me. “Come along John. You’re barely restraining your questions, and I’d rather answer them at home.” Yet again, he stalked off with his coat breezing open.  
That’s it for the case. Greg called about two hours later, just to say they’d caught the guy and he’d return Sherlock’s mobile tomorrow. I think he really wanted to know how I was, but Sherlock stole my mobile and hung up on him.  
Same old Sherlock.  
“Sherlock.”  
“Not now John.” He made a motion to disappear into his bedroom. I took two steps from the couch, grabbed his shoulder, swung his body around to face me, and punched him. Right in the nose.  
“You do not bloody come waltzing back into my life and just expect me to accept it.” I let him go and he staggered backwards, holding his bleeding nose.  
“I suppose I deserve that.”  
“Yes, you git, you do.”  
“Right then. Now that you’ve had your swing at me, can I go wash?” He made a motion to go around me.  
“Now.” I pointed to the chair. “Sit. Explain.”  
For once, Sherlock did as I told him.  
And he explained. About Moriarty, the snipers, Molly, the chemicals. About how everyone at the scene had been in on it, that he’d never really meant to be gone this long, but taking down Moriarty’s web had taken long than he’d thought it would. How Mycroft had finally urged him home, to explain everything.  
How for three years, he’d missed only one person.  
Me.  
That’s when I broke down. I just broke down and cried.  
“You idiot. You bloody idiot.”  
Mrs. Hudson says I should apologize, but I’m not sorry for breaking his nose. Not yet.  
It’s a reminder he’s alive.  
He’s really alive.  
So yeah, that’s a summary of my life and how Sherlock just walked back into. See you later, blog reading peoples.


End file.
